Culture Box: A toast to my life

I am told that I was born around eight o’clock at the public hospital on a night when two young nurses were on duty along with a doctor a few days from retirement; the child of a man who wasn’t sure whether he wanted a daughter or a son, but was willing to stake money on the baby being a girl.

My mother just wanted a healthy baby. Some of the details are sketchy; but I’m also told that I emerged healthy, kicking and screaming to announce on September 21, 1983 that a little fighter had arrived. I cried until I was tucked away for my first nap in this new, cruel yet wonderful world.

Based on my mother’s account, I cried more than the regular baby and she was apparently worried that something was wrong with me. Then it happened; the doctors approached her to say that while I was not technically a premature baby, I was pre-mature.

“She wouldn’t develop normally,” the doctors told my parents; but daddy wouldn’t hear a word of it. He rejected the medical theories and the statements about accepting me for what I was going to be; I believe he saw the fight in me when others couldn’t.
I know this is sounding all novel-like but my life is the stuff novels are made of and as I celebrate my 27 years on this big old earth, I am going to look back and say, “Things didn’t just turn out right, they turned out perfect!”  The people close to me, like my grandmother and my parents, understand how far this little fighter has come because the odds were against me.

My father would say that our life is not determined; we are free! I was free to be anything I wanted to be and or do anything I wanted to despite the talk of me having to feel different. I can’t recall ever feeling like something was wrong with me either because I was taking the lead pretty early in life; I was making a case as to why I should be class monitor at the nursery level and was also coming up with ideas to work on for my graduation from that level.

I did wear ridiculously tiny clothing growing up; some pieces much earlier in my life that people would dispute a human child could fit into. I think in that respect I was different, but I had no idea what different was; my parents didn’t teach me that word.  My feet were always smaller than others; I always measured up smaller in terms of height and weight; I ate far less; I looked tiny, but that was as far as the comparisons go.

But not every girl can grow up saying she had an opportunity to wear high heels at age two years; I did though my mother laughs whenever she recalls that story. “They were your doll shoes!” she says and always breaks into laughter. So what if they were?  The doll, I was told, was fairly large. I wore the shoes and I knew how to walk in them. To this day, stilettos and I are inseparable.

I tell my parents that my memoirs have to be written; people need to hear my story. It is so amazing I tell you and the best part is that, it is still being written. I am going to wake up next Tuesday feeling a deep sense of accomplishment, but more importantly, blessed. I am going to pat myself on the back and take a toast in my honour.

People celebrate their birthdays every year and I am wondering how many of them actually look back and take some pride in the lives they are living. I do; every year, but this year, I feel more proud. I am not afraid of growing older either because I realize how that my face is more defined every year, in a good day, and that my resolve is strengthened and my character tougher. What’s not to celebrate and be thankful for? (thescene@stabroeknews.com)